Two Kids, Two Countries, One Family.

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M: 22 months

There are few more posts I can start with the number of months you’ve aged, baby; all too soon you’ll be two and then the fractions must start to kick in. I remember so vividly counting in days and then weeks..how did we get up to years?Your favourite pasttime right now is dropping stones in water. Any water, anywhere. The absolute concentration with which you pull back your arm, willing it to release the stone with enough force to elicit a splash, scrunching your forhead as you aim at the ripples the previous throw left behind. “Atiiiii!” you squeel in delight as the rock hits the lake or the puddle, or my hairclip sinks into the bath. Few moments in my day are as precious as watching these splashes multiply as quickly as the calendar days.

My darling M, at 22 months old you

have bed hair that is out of control,
with hat hair that is even more epic.
You eat a half bag of pasta,
often request to eat "egge",
and are still in an olive obsession.

You enjoy Caillou and "Beebeeees" but top of the top is Aslan Kral – you really are in love with all lions.
You dislike socks that are twisted
and going to sleep,
love jumping in puddles
and making T laugh.

In the past few weeks you’ve been giving out gifts – playdoh cookies, teethable ribbons, nibbled on snacks – and our favourite of all of these gifts is a toddler-peeled mandarin, pith free, individually segmented, finger punctured with love. Interactions with you are filled with excitement and intrigue warmed up with a generosity and tenderness that is so natural to you, you really are a joy to behold.

You struggle somedays with expressing yourself, find frustrating having to show not just tell. I ask Allah to ease this challenging burden; I assure you this test will soon pass.
The past month your language has come on in leaps, my comical bilingual dude, and already you have language preference for certain words, or even days, when English, or Turkish, is not what you want to hear. You think Tigger speaks Turkish, whereas Monkey is English, and “Baby” T you interpret for; “feed him, Mummy” as you tug at my top, “play with him, Baba” as you pass over a toy. You are a fabulous big brother, Babyone.

On days when you’re finding it trying to just be awake and all your frustrations come toward me, I will myself to stay with you. I try my best to avoid wishing hours away or giving in and just sitting in front of movies. We get bundled up warm and run out to play, being outside is a tonic for you. As you run helterskelter, knees finally lifting properly, ridding you of your babyness shuffle, arms still uncoordinated propellers out behind, you stop suddenly to collect a red pebble or drop to your knees to call over a cat. And in those moments when you leave me far behind, when I’m able to just watch you at peace with yourself, I forget every one of your screams and feel humbled to be caught in your windstream.

At 22months you

have started picking your nose and finding farts funny,
hide each and every thing into each and every crevice – please, where is the garlic press, M?
You are enthralled with Iznik’s Aya Sofia, ask to stop every time we walk by
think park toys superfluous to any tree or pile of rocks.
You descend sofas headfirst and on all stairs jump the last step.

You make me smile and laugh and cry,
Frustrate me, perplex me, surprise me.
You’re the best of explorers and the worst of bedtime keepers
And I enjoy you, every aspect- yes, even the trials, in every adventure, every day.